THE IMAGE OF JEALOUSY
The Maccabee resolved that in spite of his heart-hunger, he must not
be a frequent visitor to the house of Amaryllis because of the
imminent risk of confronting the impostor Julian and the danger of
exposure. Not danger to his life, but danger to his freedom to court
the beautiful girl, which an unmasking might accomplish. Besides, he
had made an extraordinary entry into the Greek's house in the
beginning, and he was not prepared to explain himself even now, if he
returned.
But his longing to look at her again was stronger than his caution.
Much had happened since he had left the house of the Greek on the
evening of his first day in Jerusalem, and he feared that his
absorption in his own plans might result in the loss of her soon or
late. So when the evening of the second week to a day of his sojourn
in the city came round, unable to endure longer, he turned his steps
with considerable apprehension toward the house of Amaryllis.
When he was led across the threshold of the Greek's hall, he saw
Amaryllis sitting in her exedra, her slim white arms crossed back of
her head, her tiring-woman, summoned for a casual attention, busy with
a parted ribbon on the sandal of the lady's foot.
The Maccabee awaited her invitation. Her eyes flashed a sudden
pleasure when she looked up and saw him.
"Enter," she said, with an unwonted lightness in her voice that was
usually low and grave; "and be welcome."
He came to the place she indicated at her side and sat. In silence he
waited until the tiring-woman had finished her service and departed.
Then it was Amaryllis who spoke.
"You left us abruptly on occasion of your first visit."
"The siege was of greater interest to you than I was. When I
discovered the cause of the disturbance, you would have failed to
remember me."
"Yet I recall you readily after many days."
"The city is in disorder; conventions can not always be observed in
war-time. I returned when I could."
"Our interest in you as our guest has not abated. Philadelphus is
ready to see you, at any time," she said, watching his face.
"And in time of war," he answered composedly, "we intend many things
in the first place which we do not carry out in the second. I do not
care to see--Philadelphus."
She lifted her brows. He answered the implied question.
"I was a familiar to this Philadelphus; he is young and boastful,
talkative as a woman. If he means to be king, as those who knew him in
Ephesus were given to believe, it is not unnatural that some of us,
without fortune or tie to keep us home, should follow him--as
parasites, if you will--to share in the largess which he will surely
give his friends if he succeeds."
He did not face her when he made this speech, and he did not observe
the amusement that crept into her eyes. He could not sense his own
greatness of presence sufficiently to know that his claim to be a
parasite upon so incapable a creature as the false Philadelphus would
awaken doubt in the mind of an intelligent woman like Amaryllis.
He felt that he was not covering his tracks well, and put his
ingenuity to a test.
"The boon-craver therefore should not sit like a dog, begging crumbs,
till the table is laid. My hunger would appear as competition, if I
showed it him, while he is yet unfed. Of a truth, I would not have him
know I am here."
"I will keep thy secret," she promised, smiling.
"I thank you," he said gravely. "I came, on this occasion, to ask
after the young woman, whose name I have not learned--her whom you
have sheltered."
Amaryllis' smiling eyes darkened suddenly.
"Pouf!" she said. "I had begun to hope that you had come to see me!"
"I had not John's permission," he objected.
"Have you Philadelphus' permission to see her?"
He looked his perplexity.
"What," she exclaimed, "has she not laid her claim before you yet?"
The Maccabee shook his head.
"Know, then, that this pretty nameless creature claims to be the wife
of this same Philadelphus."
He sat up in his earnestness.
"What!" he cried.
"Even so! Insists upon it in the face of the lady princess' proofs and
Philadelphus' denial!"
The Maccabee's brows dropped while he gazed down at the Greek.
Julian of Ephesus was then the husband that she was to join in
Jerusalem! Small wonder she had been indignant when he, the Maccabee,
in the spirit of mischief, had laid a wife to Julian's door and had
described her as most unprepossessing. And that was why her terror of
Julian had been so abject! That was why she had flown to him, a
stranger, rather than be left alone with a husband who, it seemed,
would be rid of her that he might pursue his ends the better!
"What think you of it!" he exclaimed aloud, but to himself.
"And I never saw in all my life such pretensions of probity!" the
Greek continued. "She is outraged by any little word that questions
her virtue; she holds herself aloof from me as if she were not certain
that I am fit for her companionship; and she flies with fluffed
feathers and cries of rage in the face of the least compliment that
comes from any lips--even Philadelphus!"
The Maccabee continued to gaze at the Greek. He did not see the
woman's search of his face for an assent to her speech. He was
struggling with a desire to tell her that he was eager to exchange his
wife for Julian's.
"Perchance she is right," he said instead. "What know we of this
paganized young Jew? He has been separated from his lady from
childhood. It is right easy to marry, once we fall into the way."
"No, no! Her claim is hopeless. She confesses it. But she maintains
the assumption, nevertheless."
"Absolutely? No little sign of lapse among thy handsome servants,
here?"
"I do not see her when she is with the servants," she said astutely.
"What will you do with her?" he asked.
"She is beautiful, unique, and so eligible to my collection of arts
and artists under this roof. She shall stay till fate shows its hand
for all of us."
"You have housed Discord under your roof, then," he said. "Laodice,
the wife to this Philadelphus, will not be a happy woman; and I--I
shall not be a happy man. Let me return favor for your favor to me. I
will take her away."
She laughed, though it seemed that a hard note had entered her voice.
"You will permit me, then, to surmise for myself why you came to
Jerusalem. You seem to have known this girl before. I shall not ask
you; in return for that promise that I may conclude what I will."
"If you are too discerning, lady," he answered, while his eyes sought
down the corridor for a glimpse of the one he had come to see, "you
are dangerous."
"And what then?"
"I must devise a way to silence you."
She lifted her brows. In that very speech was the portrait of the
Maccabee that she had come to love through letters.
"There is something familiar in your mood," she said thoughtfully. "It
seems that I have known you--for many years."
He made no answer. He had said all that he wished to say to this
woman. She noted his silence and rose.
"I shall send the girl to you."
"Thou art good," he answered and she withdrew.
A moment later Laodice came into the chamber. She was not startled. In
her innocent soul she did not realize that this was a sign of the
depth of her love for him. He rose and met her half-way across the
hall; took her hand and held it while they walked back to the exedra,
and gazed at her face for evidence that her sojourn in this house had
been unhappy or otherwise; noted that she had let down her hair and
braided it; observed every infinitesimal change that can attract only
the lover's eye.
"Sit," he said, giving her a place beside him. "I came of habit to see
you. Of habit, I was interrupted. Is there no way that I can talk to
you without the resentment of some one who flourishes a better right
to be with you than I can show?"
"Where hast thou been," Laodice asked, "so long?"
"Was it long," he demanded impulsively, "to you?"
"New places, new faces, uncertainty and other things make time seem
long," she explained hastily.
"Nay, then," he said, "I have been busy. I have been attending to that
labor I had in mind for Judea, of which we spoke in the hills that
morning."
Laodice drew in a quick breath. Then some one, if not herself or the
husband who had denied her, was at work for Judea.
"There is no nation, here, for a king," he went on. "It is a great
horde that needs organization. It wants a leader. I am ambitious and
Judea will be the prize to the ablest man. Seest thou mine intent?"
"You--you aspire--" she began and halted, suddenly impressed with the
complication his announcement had effected.
"Go on," he said.
"You would take Judea?"
"I would."
"But it belongs of descent to the Maccabees!"
"To Philadelphus Maccabaeus, yes; but what is he doing?"
She dropped her head.
"Nothing," she said in a half-whisper.
"No? But let me tell you what I have done already. Three days ago
Titus took revenge upon Coenopolis for her sortie against Nicanor by
firing the suburbs. The citizens could not spare water to fight the
fire, and after futile attempts they gathered up food and treasure and
fled into Jerusalem. Now, a thousand householders in the streets of
this oppressed city, with their gods and their goods in their arms,
made the pillagers of Simon and John laugh aloud. They fell upon these
wandering, bewildered, treasure-laden people and robbed them as
readily and as joyously as a husbandman gathers olives in a fat year.
Oh, it was a merry time for the men of Simon and the men of John! But
I in my wanderings over the city came upon a party of Bezethans,
reluctant to surrender their goods for the asking, and they were
fighting with right good will a body of Idumeans twice their number.
In fact they fought so well, so unanimously, so silently that I saw
they lacked the essential part of the fight--the shouting. That I
supplied. And when they had whipped the Idumeans and had a chance for
flight before reinforcements came, they obeyed my voice in so far as
they followed me into a subterranean chamber beneath a burned ruin on
Zion.
"We were not followed and our hiding-place was not discovered. In
fact, their resistance was a complete success. Whereupon, they were
ready to unite and take Jerusalem! No--it was not strange! It is the
nature of men. I never saw a wine-merchant in Ephesus, who, after
clearing his shop of brawlers single-handed, was not ready thereupon
to march upon Rome and besiege Cæsar on the Palatine! So it was with
these Bezethans.
"I, with my voice, expressed the yearnings that they felt in their
victorious breasts, and plotted for them. After council and
organization we went forth by night and finding Idumean patrols by the
score sleepy and inert from overfeeding we robbed them of that which
was our own. Then we sought out hungry Bezethans and fed them when
they promised to become of our party. Nothing was more simple! By dawn
we had a hundred under our ruin, bound to us by oath and the
enticements of our larder, and hungry only for fight! Will you believe
me when I boast that I have an army in Jerusalem?"
She heard him with a strange confusion of emotions. In her soul she
was excited and eager for his success; but here was a strong and
growing enemy to Philadelphus, who was reluctant to become a king! Her
impulsive joy in a forceful man struggled with her sense of duty to
the man she could not love.
"Why do you tell me these things?" she said uneasily. "It is perilous
for any one to know that you are constructing sedition against these
ferocious powers in Jerusalem."
"Ah, but you fear for me; therefore you will not betray me. None else
but those as deeply committed know of it."
He had confided in her, and because of it his ambitions took stealthy
hold upon her.
"But--but is there no other way to take Jerusalem, except--by
predatory warfare?" she hesitated.
"No," he laughed. "We are fighting thieves and murderers; they do not
understand the open field; we must go into the dark to find them."
"Then--then if your soldiers have the good of the city and the love of
their fellows in their hearts, and if you feed them and shelter
them--why shall you not succeed?" she asked, speaking slowly as the
sum of his advantages occurred to her.
He dropped his hand on hers.
"It lacks one thing; if I have discouragement in my soul, it will
weaken my arm, and so the arm of all my army."
Intuition bade her hesitate to ask for that essential thing; his eyes
named it to her and she looked away from him quickly that he might not
see the sudden flush which she could not repress.
"Tell me," she said, "more of that night--"
"That would be recounting the same incident many times. But one thing
unusual happened; nay, two things. In the middle of the night, after
we had brought in our second enlistment of patriots, we were feeding
them and I was giving them instruction. At the entrance, I had posted
a sentry; none of us believed that any one had seen us take refuge in
that crypt. Indeed, we were all frank in our congratulations and
defiant in our security. Suddenly, I saw half of my army scuttle to
cover; the rest stood transfixed in their tracks. I looked up and
there before me in the firelight stood a young man, whom I had not, I
am convinced, brought in with me. He was tall, comely, dressed as I
have seen the Hindu priests dress in Ephesus, but in garments that
were fairly radiant for whiteness. But his face gave cause enough to
make any man lose his tongue. Believe me, when I say he looked as if
he had seen angels, and had talked with the dead. His eyes gazed
through us as if we had been thin air. So dreadful they were in their
unseeing look that every man asked himself what would happen if that
gaze should light upon him. He stood a moment, walked as soft-footed
and as swiftly as some shade through our burrow and vanished as he had
come. In all the time he tarried, he made not one sound!"
Laodice was looking at him with awed, but understanding eyes.
"It was Seraiah," she said in a low voice. "He entered this place on a
day last week. All the city is afraid of him."
"So my soldiers told me afterward, between chattering teeth. He almost
damped our patriotism. We uttered our bombast, sealed our vows and
made our sorties, thereafter, every man of us, with our chins over our
shoulders! Spare me Seraiah! He has too much influence!"
"Is he a madman?" she asked.
"Or else a supernatural man. Would I could manage men by the fall of
my foot, as he does. I should have Jerusalem's fealty by to-morrow
night. But it was near early morning that the other incident occurred.
That was of another nature. We stumbled upon a pair huddled in the
shadow of a building. We stumbled upon many figures in shadows, but
one of these murmured a name that I heard once in the hills hereabout,
and I had profited by that name, so I halted. It was an old man,
starved and weary and ill; with him was a gray ghost of a creature
with long white hair, that seemed to be struck with terror the instant
it heard my voice. At first I thought it was a withered old woman, but
it proved to be a man--somehow seeming young in spite of the
snow-white hair and wasted frame. I had them taken up, the gray ghost
resisting mightily, and carried to my burrow where they now lie. They
eat; they take up space; they add nothing to my cause. But I can not
turn them out. The old man disarms me by that name."
He looked down at her with softening eyes.
"And the shepherd held thy hand?" he said softly. She turned upon him
in astonishment. How much of joy and surprise and hope he could bring
in a single visit, she thought. Now, behold he had met that same
delightsome child that had passed like a dash of sunlight across her
dark day.
"Did you meet the shepherd of Pella?" she asked. Instant deduction
supplied her the name that had moved him to compassion. "And did he
serve you in the name of his Prophet?" she whispered.
"He saved my life in the name of his Christ, but was tender of me in
thy name," he replied.
"His is a sweet apostasy," she ventured bravely, "if it be his
apostasy that made him kind. And I--I owe him much, that he repaired
that for which I feel at fault."
He smiled at her and stroked her hand once, soothingly.
"Let us not remember blames or injury. It damages my happiness. But of
this apostasy that the shepherd preached me. I passed the stones of
the Palace of Antipas to-day, a ruin, black and shapeless. Thought I,
where is the majesty of order and the beauty of strength that was this
place? And then," his voice fell to a whisper, "beshrew the boy's
tattle, I said, the footprints of his Prophet before the throne of
Herod are erased."
"Even then," she whispered when he paused, "you do not forget!"
"No! Why, these streets, that should ring for me with the footsteps of
all the great from the days of David, are marked by the passage of
that Prophet. I might forget that Felix and Florus and Gessius were
legates in that Roman residence, but I do not fail to remember that
they took that Prophet before Pilate there. By my soul, the street
that leads north hath become the way of the Cross, and there are three
crosses for me on the Hill of the Skull!"
She looked at him gravely and with alarm. What was it in this history
of the Nazarene which won aristocrats and shepherds alike? She would
see from this man if there were indeed any truth in the story that
Philadelphus had told her.
"I have heard," she began, faltering, "I have heard that--" She
stopped. Her tongue would not shape the story. But after a glance at
her, he understood.
"And thou hast heard it, also?" he whispered. "Thou believest it?"
It seemed that to acknowledge her fear that the King had come and gone
would establish the fact.
"No!" she cried.
"It is enough," he said nervously. "We do not well to talk of it. I
came for another reason. Tell me; hast thou other shelter than this
house?"
"No," she answered.
"Hast thou talked with this Philadelphus, here?" he asked after
silence.
She assented with averted face.
"Is he that one who was with me in the hills?" he persisted.
Again she assented, with surprise.
His hands clenched and for a moment he struggled with his rage.
"This house is no place for you!" he declared at last.
"What manner of house is this?" she asked pathetically. "It is so
strange!"
"Why did you come here?"
"Because there was nowhere else to go."
He was silent.
"Who is this Amaryllis?" she asked.
"John's mistress."
She shrank away from him and looked at him with horror-stricken eyes.
"Hast thou not yet seen him, who buys thy bread and meat and insures
this safe roof?" he persisted.
"And--and I eat bread--bought--bought by--" she stammered.
"Even so!"
Her hands dropped at her sides.
"Are the good all dead?" she said.
"In Jerusalem, yes; for Virtue gets hungry, at times."
She had risen and moved away from him, but he followed her with
interested eyes.
"Then--then--" she began, hesitating under a rush of convictions.
"That is why--why I can not--why he--he--"
He knew she spoke of Philadelphus.
"Go on," he said.
"Why I can not live in safety near him!"
He, too, arose. Until that moment it had not occurred to him that
Julian of Ephesus, as repugnant to her as she had shown him ever to
be, might prove a peril to her life as he had been to the Maccabee who
had stood in his way.
"What has he said to you?" he demanded fiercely. "How do you live,
here in this house?"
She threw up her head, seeing another meaning in his question.
"Shut in! Locked!" she said between her teeth.
"But even then you are not safe!"
She drew back hastily and looked at him with alarm. What did he mean?
He was beside her.
"Tell me, in truth, who you are," he said tenderly, "and I shall
reveal myself."
Then, indeed, Amaryllis had told him her claim and had convinced him
that it was fraudulent.
"And she told you?" she said wearily.
"Tell me," he insisted. "I have truly a revelation worth hearing!"
She made no answer.
"You owe it me," he added presently. "Behold what damaging things I
have intrusted to you. You can ruin me by the droop of an eyelash."
"I should have told you at first who I am," she said finally. "I will
not betray what you told me in ignorance--"
"But Amaryllis told me this before you came."
"Nevertheless, tell me no more; if I must be a partizan, I shall be a
partizan to my husband."
"There is nothing for you here, clinging to this man," he continued
persuasively. "This woman brought him a great dowry. She is ambitious
and therefore jealous. You will win nothing but mistreatment, and
worse, if you stay here for him."
"It is my place," she said.
After a moment's helpless silence, he demanded bitterly:
"Dost thou love that man?"
The truth leaped to her lips with such wilful force that he read the
reply on her face, though her eyes were down and by intense resolution
she restrained the denial. He was close to her, speaking quickly under
the pressure of his earnestness.
"I have sacrificed name, birthright, fortune--even honor--that I might
be free to love thee!"
She drew back from him hurriedly, afraid that his very insistence
would destroy her fortitude.
"Let me not have bankrupted myself for a trust thou wilt not give!"
"It--it is not mine to give," she stammered.
"Otherwise--otherwise--" he prompted, leaning near her. But she put
him back from her, desperately.
"Go, go!" she whispered. "I hear--I hear Philadelphus!"
He turned from her obediently.
"It is not my last hope," he said to himself. "Neither has she
suffered her last perplexity in this house. I shall come again."
He passed out into the streets of Jerusalem.